


N1: Precision of Chaos

by LtLime23



Series: N7 Month 2018 [1]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Death, Drabble, F/F, Grief, Post War, n7month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 08:32:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16512890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LtLime23/pseuds/LtLime23
Summary: Drabbles/flash filling the Tumblr N7 Month fanfic prompts.N1: Death





	N1: Precision of Chaos

A single crisp rectangle of paper lay before Liara.  Her desk completely cleared apart from the coil of chain tethering two blackened and buckled scraps of metal.  The shards of her heart.  Hands steady, they were always steady.  Sometimes she felt the firmness of her handshake or the calm efficiency of her gestures betrayed her.  Perhaps one day someone would look into her eyes and see the chaos.

For now, she folds.  Aligning corners and edges, sliding the pad of a first finger along the length of the crease, wanting it sharp, precise.  Each rotation, each line etched against the pristine surface complicating the construction, building, entwining, weaving.

The tears come at the inward fold of the outer corners, giving hull and buoyancy.  It is always here.  A prickle of hot salt itching at the corner of her eye.  Barely registering anymore; a lone tear does nothing to empty the well of grief. 

She tugs at the long sides, giving the final form to the small paper boat.  Carefully setting it down, following the stark lines, tracing the pattern of interlacing triangles.  Simple, beautiful, frustrating.  There are no curves.  There is only mathematical precision, a binary geometry of yes, no, fold, unfold, edge or corner.  The intersect of each systematic movement, correlating actions, a push and pull giving form to intricate beauty.  There is no smooth flow, no soft skin under warm fingers, no held breath before a first kiss.  There is no free form expression of raw emotion.  Only folds.

With a sigh she stands.  Becoming absorbed in her hurt will do no good.  Taking the boat, she steps into the bathroom, turning off the tap and inhaling the steam.  She focuses on the ripple of goosebumps chasing the tide of the water across her skin as she submerges herself.

Waiting until the water has settled she sets her piece of meticulous art adrift.  A waver as the rhythm of her breathing shifts and swells, creating a friendly bob.  She watches as nature in all its illogical confused glory creeps up on the ordered.  The bleed starts slowly, darkening and blotting the pristine surface.  Highlighting the frailty, the weakness.  Spreading until it has consumed and saturated every perfect face.

Liara watches as the sodden paper starts to sink.  She closes her eyes, pushing the breath from her lungs and sinking below the surface with it.  One day.  One day her vessel won’t sink.  One day she will stem the bleeding.  One day her heart will beat without the iron fist of grief.  One day she won’t have to fold and contort her turmoil into a manageable, logical entity.  Eventually she will round the edges. 

She will sail again.


End file.
